We were bemoaning the first chilly twinges of the season. Already, so many leaves had dropped, having skipped those photogenic turns made famous by Sunday drives and Yankee Magazine. Time seemed to be running out. For what, exactly, we weren't sure, but we were clinging nonetheless, our bodies tilted toward lukewarm sunlight.
Below, disrupting our footsteps: countless, anonymous acorns. It was easy to think them a nuisance, or worse, a hazard; at first, we looked for a path to avoid them entirely. But their thick, wide scatter made that impossible, and the walk became slow and careful, and time fell silent, and our gaze softened, and the acorns - fallen from grace - looked almost exactly like stars.